Work Text:
When you close your eyes, in the crisp silence of Roman night, you almost feel like you’re right there; the taste, smell, and sounds the market envelop you. You are transported back to a moment in time: you, at the young age of five, propped up on a stool behind the market table as your grandmother putters around, her weathered hands organizing the various herbs and spices along the table. You hear her honeyed voice conversing in rushed exchanges with customers, haggling for the best price, suggesting herbal remedies for specific ailments. The heat of the sun beats down on your golden skin, sweat gathering at the nape of your neck. Your little legs swing back and forth, dangling from the table, your worn-down sandals splitting at the seams.
“Bene mane Antonia,” you hear a low, husky voice greet your grandmother, as an imposing shadow falls over you and the stand, momentarily providing reprieve from the blazing sun. You glance up to see a strong looking man in a soldier’s uniform, helmet in hand.
“Captain Acacius,” your grandmother nods deferentially. “It is good to see back out amongst the people. You have my deepest condolences for your terrible loss.”
The captain nods in thanks, a pinched expression pulling at his face. “Thank you, Antonia. They are at peace with the gods now.”
The statement comes out static, toneless, as if he has said it 1000 times and expects to say it a thousand more. He breathes in and continues, “I trust you are well? My mother sends her regards.”
“Please send Yulia my regards as well Captain—”
“—Acacius is fine,” the man interrupts, “Please Antonia, you were present for my very birth, there is no need for such formality.”
“Nonsense,” your grandmother tuts, “You are a warrior of Rome, are you not?” She pauses, looking your way. “Captain—have you met my granddaughter? Darling, this is Captain Marcus Acacius, a future General of Rome, I daresay.”
“You flatter me, Antonia,” Marcus replies, dipping his head towards your grandmother lightly in thanks, a slight blush crossing his cheeks, before crouching down to your level at the table. His dark brown eyes widen briefly as he catches your own, taking in their cloudy-grey color. You are used to such reactions by now; you know your eyes are unlike those around you.
Demon child, some say. Touched by the gods, say others. You’ve heard it all.
“It is an honor to meet you young one. Are you being good for your grandmother this morning?”
“I am!” your young voice replies sunnily, “I helped her pick seeds out of the coriander this morning!”
“Well,” smiles Acacius, “That is very important indeed! Sounds to me like you have earned some candy little one.” To your great surprise, Acacius pulls a denarius out from behind your ear, and you clap joyfully at the little magic trick.
“Avia, can I please?” you beg your grandmother.
“Of course—but just one, no need to spoil your dinner,” your grandmother replies kindly, smiling at Acacius, who takes your little hand in his, helps you hop down from your seat, and turns to the vendor two tables down. An array of sweets are spread along the table in front of you, tempting you in a colorful line.
“You can pick two,” Marcus smiles, as you take in the display, simmering with excitement, “just don’t tell your grandmother,” He adds with a wink. “Which flavors do you like, little one?”
You seriously consider your options, your nose crinkling in thought.
“Honey?” You ask, looking up at your new friend and benefactor.
“Of course, and one more?”
“Orange!” you decide of excitedly.
“Excellent choices, I may have an orange myself. Look at the bright beautiful color on these, eh?”
“Did you know that this one isn’t really orange,” you whisper to the Captain excitedly, “It’s orange because they use flowers to give it color.”
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, “I did not! That is an interesting fact indeed. How did you ever find that out?
“Raisa told me so,” you whisper conspiratorially, looking back at the candy vendor, a close friend of your grandmother’s. “She even showed me the flowers!”
“Not much gets past those eyes, does it?” the Captain laughs, and pays for the small candies. His large hand reaches down to place the two pieces of your choosing into your two small, cupped hands. “Now, eat slowly, little one, or you’ll get sick,” he warns, with a small smile.
You nod seriously, mumbling a “Thanks,” and immediately shoving one of the sweet candies into your mouth, causing him to let out a small chuckle. With a small pat on your head, you make your way back towards your grandmother.
“Did you thank the Captain?” Your grandmother asks.
“Fank you,” you mumble through a mouthful of one of your candies, resulting is a Tsk from your grandmother at your rudeness, though there is a smile in her eyes.
“She’s quite a clever one,” Acacius smirks, nodding back at you. “And her eyes, they are quite unusual, no? Like smoke from a pyre, or storm clouds out at sea.”
“That she is,” your grandmother smiles, “She’s always asking questions. Wants to know every little thing. And her great-grandfather had eyes like hers, but I have not seen them in our family since then. My own mother always said that they are a gift from the gods, to show an abundance of wisdom.”
“That I believe,” Acacius smiles, glanding at you affectionately before looking back to your grandmother.
“Antonia, my mother sent me for the ingredients needed for a cooling salve for a kitchen burn. I am not well-versed in these things, my wife, she usually was the one—” he stops abruptly, a grim expression crossing his face, before shaking himself and forging ahead. “Can you show me what exactly I need?”
“Of course, Captain,” your grandmother replies, skillfully drawing several herbs into a satchel, handing them across the table. “Tell Yulia to mix with water and lemon and apply twice per day.
“Gratius, Antonia,” Acacius intones, bowing again slightly, before turning back to you, “goodbye, my storm-eyed child.”
You watch Acacias leave, his strong back disappearing into the busy market crowd as they part around him.
You consider your new friend, turning to your grandmother.
“Avia, why does he look sad?”
Your grandmother raises her eyebrows, perhaps surprised by your observation.
“Ah, my child, the Captain lost his wife and son to the god of death, and they are gone, now with your mother and father. Such a shame it was, he is so young, not yet four and thirty. He misses them very much. I think it made him very happy to buy you a candy, yes?”
“Oh,” you say, voice small, thinking seriously, “Maybe he can come back and buy me another candy next week?” you suggest, hopefully.
You can’t see her face, but you hear the smile in your grandmother’s voice. “I think he would like that my darling.”
And that is how the young Captain Acacius became a regular fixture in your life, buying you sweets every week, and listening to your little facts about the herbs and spices with rapt attention, calling you little one and storm-eyed child.
“It heals his heart, to show kindness to a child after losing his own,” your grandmother remarks one afternoon, many months later. And it occurs to you that the young Acacius has looked much less sad lately, than he did on that first blistering afternoon.
Acacius, you, and your grandmother find little moments of joy in one another amongst the bustling marketplace for over a year, until a months-long military campaign takes Acacius away from the heart of Rome.
When Acacius returns, he does so as a decorated General, and the first time he goes back to the market, you and your grandmother are nowhere to be found.
-----------------------------------
13 years later
You
You sit at the end of your uncle’s property, kneeling in the dirt, relishing in the pinch of the sand and small rocks as they dig into your knees. The graves of your mother, father, and grandmother lay in front of you. 13 years you have lived here, and yet, it has never truly felt like home.
Wiping the sweat from your brow, you lay the flowers you picked earlier on each grave, sighing heavily.
“I miss you,” you whisper, crouched down so only the flowers can hear. You look around, making sure you are truly alone. “I heard uncle arguing with someone yesterday, something about a bet made during the games. He sounded scared.”
After a pause, you continue. “Uncle won’t let me go to the Colosseum, to watch the games he bets on. He says it is not appropriate for a young lady, but I’m nineteen- that’s hardly that young!” you whine.
“My lady,” comes the voice of one of your uncle’s guards from behind you- you hadn’t even heard him approach from the main house. “Come, your uncle wishes to speak to you.”
Your eyebrows rise, wondering what could be of importance to discuss with your uncle. Ever since he took you in after your grandmother’s death, the two of you have had a reliable, if not warm relationship. He kept you fed, and clothed. He allowed you use of his gardens, his library, and baths. But it never felt like a family with him; you simply… existed amongst one another. There was no conversation over dinner, no wise counsel from your guardian as you grew older. You barely knew anything about your uncle and it’s safe to say he knew you just as little. He was widowed 10 years prior and had never remarried. He lost both sons in the wars of the mad twins. He was a sad man.
You were aware that he gambled too much. He forbade you from public places like the market or the Colosseum unattended, just in case someone came to collect a debt. But he never offered to take you himself. You thought, perhaps, maybe he loved you in his own way, as much as a broken heart like his could love someone who was not their own.
You follow the guard back into the entryway in silence, led to a room where your uncle stands across from a man you don’t recognize, sitting calmly with two soldiers behind him. You immediately don’t like the way his eyes feel on your body, his gaze scanning up and down along your somewhat camouflaged curves, his grin splitting his face like a wound.
“Ah, yes Fabius, she will do nicely,” the stranger announces, rising from his chair to clap your uncle on the back. “600 denarii at least; maybe 800 to the right buyer.”
Your eyes fly up to meet your uncles, who you find staring at the ground.
“Please, Cassius,” your uncle begs, his gaze rising to reveal the red eyes and a grim expression, “Please just give me two more weeks and I can get you half.”
The other man, Cassius, laughs, but it is a cruel, mocking sound. “Oh come now Fabius, that’s what you said last month, and the month before.” The guards behind the cruel man snicker. “I told you the last time that you had two weeks and then I was going to take what I was owed. And so I am.”
“Uncle,” you gasp, hoping beyond hope you have misunderstood. “Uncle, please.”
Your uncle hesitates, his face wracked with shame.
“Unless you would prefer I take your head, no, Fabius? And then I’ll take your little pet anyways.” Cassius threatens, motioning his soldiers closer to both you and your uncle.
Your uncle finally makes eye contact with you, and he needn’t even speak for you to know what he is going to say.
“I’m sorry my niece,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry.”
With that, two broad arms grab yours, locking them tight behind you, and begin to drag you out of the only home you have really ever known.
Marcus
General Acacius feels as though he can breathe for the first time in months. The campaign in Numidia is finally over. His soldiers are safe, his job is done. At least until the twin emperors become restless again and send Rome’s armies off to India, or wherever else their wicked whims blow. They are a never-healing wound in his side, the bloodthirsty child emperors, pulling his life this way and that for little more than entertainment. Acacius has always been willing to lay his life down for Rome. But these last few years, he’s not sure anything he does is really for Rome anymore. This last battle, he doesn’t know why, but the wails of the widows and children of the murdered Numidian’s sit in his stomach like lead, the blood on his hands thicker, heavier than usual, despite his many baths.
But for now, in this very moment, Acacius decides he will try not to worry; he will enjoy his reprieve, no matter how short it ends up being. He will be content to walk the marketplace and take in the familiar smells and sounds of his home. Behind him, his butler Cato walks with a basketful of goods to restock the home, conversing good naturedly with the day guard, Felix. With his hood shadowing his face, there is no one to stop him on his meandering; he is a faceless and unimportant man in a crowd of many. It is a respite from the garish pomp and circumstance of his return from battle. It is the way he wishes things were, always.
Acacius is lost in thought when out of nowhere, a woman’s anguished voice rips through the marketplace.
“Stop, take your hands off of me you bastards!”
Smack. The sharp sound of a backhand reverberates through the nearby stalls, and Marcus’s gaze is drawn to the auction platform on the east side of the market. From where he stands, all he can see is a growing crowd, blocking whatever or whoever stands on the dais.
He is not sure what it is that draws him towards the noise. He does not pay much mind to the auction, or the slavers who make their denarii there. Marcus has never cared for the trade of slaves in general, his own household comprised of a small staff- loyal from the days before he lost his wife and son. A staff who have chosen to stay, despite the lack of work in managing a home for just one man. A staff, who are paid, and housed, and treated with respect. That was how Marcus was raised, and that is how things have always been. But there is something in the woman’s voice, the desperation and anger, that draws him near, like a moth to a flame.
As Marcus nears the stage, the disruption comes into view. A woman, her face shaded by the shadow of the guard currently wrestling with her as she struggles against his arms, her ripped palla billowing in the light breeze.
“Bastards! All of you!” the woman’s voice yells as she struggles.
“Silence!” the auctioneer shouts, smacking the woman across the face for a second time, and nodding to one of the other guards, who lifts a large bucket and douses the woman in cold water. Marcus can tell it is cold because even amongst the crowd, he somehow hears her sharp intake of breath.
The woman’s dress is soaked through, making the off-white linen almost see-through as it sticks to her body, revealing her curved breasts and wide hips, her nipples peaked beneath the soaked fabric. The sight is nearly pornographic. The crowd jeers at her exposed body.
“Let us begin—” the auctioneer begins. “Up first, this little beast is brought to us from Cassius Decimus. I’ve been told, as you can clearly see, that she is a fiery one.”
In front of him, Marcus hears one man say to another, “Well, I do like them to have a little fight in ‘em, don’t I? They’re more fun to break in.”
The other man laughs, responding, “Good for business, isn’t it Tiberius?”
Tiberius Salvius. Marcus has heard the name of this man from his soldiers- the owner of Red Serpent, the seediest brothel in Rome. From what Marcus hears, Tiberius doesn’t have many rules about what goes on in his place of business, as long as payment is made. There have been rumors that for the right price, a man can kill his meretrix, should he wish. But more commonly, the women of the Red Serpent emerge from encounters with their clients sporting various bruises, cuts and burns.
The thought makes Marcus feel sick, listening to the men in front of him salivate over the woman like a piece of meat, speaking of breaking her in. He looks back up towards the dais. The woman’s face is still shadowed, but she sounds and looks young. He frowns thinking of the fate that awaits her.
“Bidding starts at 400 denarii,” the auctioneer announces. The young woman’s face jerks up, taking in the crowd with horror as voices begin to call out offers.
“500,” he hears Tiberius call, but after that he hears nothing more, because the woman’s panicked gaze has met his. Her mouth is gagged as her eyes scan wildly through the audience, filled with fear and anger. She doesn’t hold his gaze long before moving to the next person, continuing her struggle against the guard behind her. But Marcus knows what he has seen, without a shadow of a doubt, and his stomach drops as memories of decades past rush to him.
“600,” comes another voice further in the back.
“700,” comes a third, from behind Marcus.
“900,” counters Tiberius with a smirk, looking around to those standing near him, as if daring them challenge him.
“Two thousand denarii,” comes a low voice, laced with warning, and it takes Marcus a moment to recognize the voice as his own. Dozens of pairs of eyes turn to stare at him in awe, and he is grateful, not for the first time, of the hood that hides his visage. The last thing he needs is questions from the emperors.
“General—” Cato whispers, looking at his Dominus like he has lost his mind, and perhaps he has. Two thousand is an unheard of sum, even for the most sought-after of meretrices. But the general’s gaze does not falter. He is locked on the young woman, who meets his gaze back, unflinching, the booming voice of the auctioneer hardly registering to either of them.
“2,000—going once, twice, sold to the gentleman in the hood.”
The young woman’s expression hardens at the final pronouncement, struggling against her bonds even more as her striking gray eyes shimmer with pure hatred at her new master.
But all Marcus can think of is storm clouds.
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He has briefly forgotten where he is before he realizes that all eyes are still on him, awaiting his next move, the collection of his prize. Hastily, he shoves a bag of coins into his guard’s hand.
“Quick – Cato, Felix, please go collect her and bring her to the gardens at the house as fast as you can. I’ll meet you there.”
He briefly catches the curious glance of Tiberius, who looks angry at his loss, before tilting his head back down to remain obscured by his hood. “Be fast, we must get her out of here with haste,” he urges, leaving no room for argument.
As Marcus slinks away from the crowd he can hear the young woman yelling at his men, cursing them into oblivion.
Stop struggling he pleads to no one, as if she can hear his thoughts. The sooner he gets her away from the crowd and from prying eyes, the better.
Back at the villa, Marcus feels as though he has been waiting hours, though it’s likely only been a matter of minutes. He jumps to his feet as he hears Cato and Felix struggle to get the young woman into the gardens through the side door; she has not stopped her cursing since the moment she was pulled from the dais. As she pulls away from them with vigor, they let her go and she goes tumbling to the ground, her knees scraping against the stones of the intricate walkway.
Acacius arrives too late to stop her fall, kneeling down to match the height of her fallen form. He moves to help her up and is met with her tiny, yet relentless hands beating against his broad chest as she curses at him. But he doesn’t fight back. As gently as she will allow, he grasps both of her shoulders, lowering his face to be level with hers, shaking her firmly, but not without kindness.
“It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you, no one here is going to hurt you, my storm-eyed girl.”
The woman freezes in place, her eyes, previously wild locking onto his as they widen in shock.
“Captain?” she whispers, as if she can hardly believe her own eyes. “Captain Acacius?”
----------------------------------
You
You feel the beat of your fists slow, as the stranger’s words sink in and take root.
My storm-eyed girl.
Someone used to call you that. But who? The words feel warm and honeyed, like home; his voice familiar and kind. They make you think of your grandmother. It is only then that you raise your eyes to meet those of your captor.
Dark brown irises with specks of gold meet your own, crinkled lines dipping from the corners, back towards his hairline. Your gaze moves lower, taking in the strong, prominent nose, the scarred cheek, the patchy beard and sharp jawline. Your gaze widens as you view graying hair, luscious and curled.
He may be older, grayer than before, but you know this man. For a moment, you can feel the heat of the market and taste sweet honey candy on your tongue, and see the crinkle in his eyes when he laughs at your childlike excitement.
“Captain?” you whisper, as if you can hardly believe your own eyes. “Captain Acacius?”
“General Acacius,” corrects Cato, grumpily, annoyed by the entire matter, but he is dismissed with a wave of Acacius’s hand.
“It matters not, Cato. After all, I was a Captain when we last met, was I not, little one?”
“Apologies,” you whisper, bowing your head, “General Acacius.” Cato grunts in approval, earning a sharp glare from Acacius.
Rising to his feet, Acacius offers you a hand, helping you to your own. With the small of his hand on your back, he guides you into his villa.
“Come, little one, you have had a long day.” He looks over you appraisingly, but without a hint of desire. “Let’s have Marilla get you some clothes and then get some food in you. Then, we will talk.”
Turning towards his manservant, he orders, “Cato, please have Aula put together a meal for our new guest.”
---------------------------
Marilla, to your delight, is a young, lively woman of four-and-twenty. She is delighted to have someone in the household near her age, and she is very, very pregnant. She flits around the quarters she shares with her husband Atticus, the household’s gardener and stable hand, pulling several plain dresses from her closet.
“I think these will fit you,” she smiles, handing you on of the dresses. You make a motion to object but she’s quick adding, “Oh no, none of that – look at me, those won’t fit me for the next three months or so at least!” she gestures to her round belly good-naturedly.
Guiding you to the servant’s bathhouse with your new dress, she leaves you alone to soak in the warmth of the water. You aren’t sure if it’s the sudden quiet and stillness, but at long last you find tears running down your face—for the first time since you were torn from your uncle’s home. You cry for the betrayal of your uncle, the fear you felt when those soldiers were manhandling you on the dais, the disgust you felt when Cassius told you just how much money you were going to make him.
“You’ll make a lovely meretrix,” he had sneered, “Just as soon as we get rid of that attitude. I’m sure Tiberius or one of the others will make quick work of you, never fear.”
You can still feel their hands on your body, restraining your writhing form, laughing as you beat your fists against them, begging to be released. You cry at the unfairness of it all, soaking in the tub until your fingers and toes begin to shrivel, and the once hot water turns tepid.
-------------------------
Dressed in the soft white linens from Marilla, you feel refreshed and a bit more clear-headed as you make your way out of the servant’s quarters. The General’s villa is nice, beautiful even, but not anywhere as opulent as you would have expected of the decorated general. The colors are warm and welcoming, the architecture open and light. You like it. It feels strange, navigating your way through a foreign home, and as you reach a main hall, you realize you don’t have any idea where you are going.
“Do you need directions?” comes an unfamiliar voice behind you. You turn and are met with sparkling, kind eyes that remind you of your grandmother’s.
“I’m Alba,” the woman introduces herself, “I cook for General Acacius, when he remembers to eat.” She shakes her head, clucking her tongue disapprovingly, “That young man doesn’t eat enough.”
You look at your new companion, smiling wryly at the use of “young” to describe the General. But then again. Alba must have at least 15 years on the general, if not more.
“Come,” she continues, ushering you forward, “He is waiting for you in the garden.”
Alba leads you slowly through the main parts of the house, pointing out areas of interest on her way.
“And there is the General’s quarters—he spends most of his time in the study there or out in the gardens.”
You lean to catch a glimpse of the General’s rooms, not able to see much before Alba ushers you forward.
As you step out into the garden, Acacius’s eyes lift from the paper he is reading to meet yours, and your breath catches in your chest. There is something about the sunlight that makes him appear a decade younger, smoothing the lines of his skin, renewing that indescribable sparkle to his eyes. You see him, not as he is, but as he was in the market all those years ago.
“Ah,” he says, jumping to his feet, pulling out the other chair at his table. “Please, sit.”
You bow lightly in thanks, scooting into the chair, feeling the warmth of his body as he pushes it in lightly behind you.
As he sits back down across from you, he gestures to the large plate of fruit and cheese, “Eat, my dear, you must be hungry.”
Gingerly, you take a piece of cheese- the first bite instantly soothing an ache in your stomach you didn’t know you have.
“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” he urges, “Please you must be starving, take as much as you want.” To your great surprise, the man then winks at you, and you can’t help but let a small smile grace your face as you pile your plate with an unseemly amount of fruit and cheese.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I thought maybe you’d prefer to be out here in the garden for lunch. It can get a little dark and empty inside during the day.”
“Not at all,” you reply demurely, “Cap—General Acacius, thank you, for, well, for not letting those other men take me. I am in your debt.” You pause, considering a question that has been plaguing you since you realized who he was.
“General, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you know who I was? After all, I hardly recognized you at first—and I, well, I apologize for hitting you before I realized.”
“You have a warrior’s spirit,” Acacius says, “This is a good thing, do not feel the need to apologize.” He smiles at you, looking almost, proud? “And as for how I knew who you were, in my 48 years of life I have never seen another with eyes like yours. They captivated me when you were just a child, and there was no mistaking them once I saw them this morning.”
You don’t know why, but his words make you blush; you feel the heat rising to your cheeks
“I have been thinking—” Acacius continues, “about your situation.”
“My—situation?” you stutter.
“Yes, you see I’d be more than happy to let you stay here for as long as you like, but people will talk. It would be inappropriate for me to house an unmarried woman such as yourself without any relation or explanation. You could of course, stay within the confines of the villa—my staff are trustworthy and will not tell anyone, but that is no life for a young woman, no?”
“No,” you admit, “I suppose not—though it would not be unlike my time with my uncle.”
“Ah yes, your uncle—” Acacius says, his countenance darkening. “We will discuss him later. But right now, we need to figure out what to do with you.”
You stiffen, nervous about where he is going with this. Is he going to sell you off to another household? Is he going to send you back to your uncle’s, heaven forbid!
“I can think of two options,” Marcus continues, “and you may pick whichever one seems best to you of course. First, I can give you some money and you can make your way to another city, start a life out of the confines of Rome, away from your uncle and his debtors. You would be free to go wherever you like, whenever you like. But of course you would be doing so alone.”
Your eyebrows raise, wondering how Acacius managed to find out about your uncle’s financial situation. It is a shockingly generous offer.
“The other option would be that I hire you to work in my home. As you know, Marilla is with child and will need to take a break from her duties soon. I will require someone to fill in for her; doing the cleaning and laundry, helping Alba with larger meals. You would stay in the servant’s quarters; have your own room, and bed. You would be paid 20 denarii per week, and you would be free to travel about the city, under my protection. If it is known you work in my home, no one will touch you.”
You are shaken by the openness and generosity of both offers.
“General,” you begin, “You have already done so much for me. 2000 denarii for heaven sakes. I cannot ask you to do more.”
“Nonsense,” the General replies with a wave of his hand, “My mother, gods rest her soul, would be terribly disappointed in me if I provided you with anything less. It is not the Acacius way.”
You smile to mask your shock. The General is unlike any highly-decorated man of Rome you have ever met; his kindness and generosity unparalleled.
“I think, in that case General, I would like to stay,” you smile brightly.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
-------------------------
You settle into life at the General’s villa with surprising ease. Mariella and you become fast friends, laughing over the laundry, gossiping in the library. And when she leaves to have her baby, you assure her not to worry, she leaves the household in capable hands. You visit her and Atticus regularly in their home on the villa grounds, cooing over the adorable newborn Aurelia.
In Alba, you find a grandmotherly figure. She rules the kitchen with an iron fist and has no fear speaking to the General plainly, much t Cato’s disapproval. But in the late hours of the day, she is a devoted confidante, and you find yourselves laughing to tears by the warmth of the hearth.
Felix and the night guard, Titus, are like older brothers you’ve never had—overprotective of you out in the marketplace and amongst the public, gently teasing you around the house until they get scolded by Alba.
Cato watches over it all with a stone-cold, humorless demeanor, but you think you can tell he is warming to you, especially when you help Alba with her baking and sneak him his favorite treats when you can.
And the General—well, the General is complicated.
You can feel his eyes on you when you aren’t looking, a light heat prickling at the back of your neck. And you often find yourself staring at him when he isn’t looking, taking in the strong features of his face as he reads over battle plans, appreciating the soft curls of his hair after refilling his wine glass.
Sometimes, when you close your eyes at night, you are taken back to the marketplace. Only this time, you are as you are now, a grown woman. You imagine the General’s strong hands resting on your hips, his eyes sparkling brightly as he teases you, his lips plump and moist, begging to be kissed.
You don’t know where this hunger has come from. You cannot explain how it began, or why it lingers. You find yourself blushing at the lightest of compliments. You shiver ever so slightly when the General puts a friendly hand on your arm or sends a dastardly wink your way. Sometimes a strange expression will cross his face when you touch, and you wonder if he feels something akin to the burning hunger you feel yourself.
Your heart breaks ever so slightly, when the General is eventually pulled away from Rome by another war campaign ordered by the emperors. In the weeks of his absence, you keep your mind busy with your chores, though there is not much to keep up with. You make use of your free time mixing remedies you learned from your grandmother as a child, honing her art, awaiting the general’s return. You can’t explain it, but after 13 years apart, his absence now of merely a month tears at your heart in ways you never expected, and you can only pray for his return unscathed.
-------------------------
You
You are shaken awake in the middle of the night by Cato.
“He’s back—” he whispers, “he’s in a foul mood, and requesting a bath be prepared.”
Back?
You hop out of bed, feeling wide awake at the prospect of the General’s return. You quickly throw a stola over your night tunic, while Cato averts his gaze.
“How is he?” you question as you rush down the stairs towards the bath, wrapping your palla as you go, not caring if you are out of line. Cato raises an eyebrow.
“In pain,” Cato sighs, “but he insists it’s nothing a warm bath won’t fix.”
You nod, splitting off from Cato at the base of the stairs, rushing t the bathhouse, but not before making a detour to the pantry to grab a selection of your healing salves and balms you have been working on in the General’s absence. You know how men are—Acacius may be trying to save face in front of Cato, but perhaps, he will allow you, a mere woman, to tend to his wounds, whatever they may be.
You have the bath warm and mostly full, soaked with lavender, chamomile and sage, excellent for soothing tired muscles and calming frayed nerves. The hem of your stola is damp with water from filling the tub in such a frenzy, and you are knelt down by the edge to test the temperature of the water, when you are startled by a hand on your shoulder. Luckily, the hand steadies you as you wobble, preventing you from falling into the bath entirely.
“Girl,” you hear his deep voice sigh, wearily. “I am sorry you were pulled from your dreams at such late an hour. I told Cato I was perfectly capable of drawing my own bath.”
“It’s no trouble, General,” you smile, rising to your feet, his hand still resting lightly on your shoulder. His face softens as his dark eyes meet yours, but the quasi-smile morphs into grimace as he turns to the side.
“You are injured, sir,” you frown, eyebrows knitting together.
“It’s nothing—” he insists, moving to lean away from you, but wincing again.
“It’s not nothing,” you chide, surprising yourself with your own boldness. Your tone earns you a delicious raised eyebrow that makes your stomach warm. You press your advantage.
“Into the bath with you,” you encourage, lightly pushing him back towards the bath, then turning back towards the shelves where you left your salves and balms, giving the general some privacy. You fiddle with the jars until you hear a light splash of water and the general sigh in relief, followed by a quick hiss of pain.
You turn back towards the bath to find the general seated in the bath facing away from you, his head leaned back as if looking to the gods. You can’t help but take the opportunity and admire his strong back muscles and his well-shaped biceps as they rest along the bath’s edge. As your eyes trail up his arms towards his shoulder, you see it: a long angry-red gash across his left shoulder. The blood looks dry, but the gash is long and the skin looks pink and agitated. You let out a small gasp of surprise.
“Looks worse than it is, little one,” he sighs without turning his head, but the tightness in his voice leaves you unconvinced.
You look down at the salve in your hand, and steady yourself before walking forward towards his back. Wordlessly, you drop to your knees behind him, feeling the water soak through the bottom half of your stola, but you care not.
You lean forward, placing your lips close to his ear, and more boldly than you feel, whisper, “Let me help you General, please.”
You think you hear his sharp intake of breath, and then he sighs.
“You are as stubborn as your grandmother,” he grumbles.
“Moreso I should think, General,” you smile, met with a light chuckle from him.
“Acacius, please,” he adds, surprising you. “I do not wish for you to be so formal with me.”
You shake your head, not that he can see it. “I am in your employment, it’s only proper,” you tease.
Another chuckle, this time less amused, more frustrated. “Proper,” he repeats, before once again falling silent, letting his head drop forward. You take this as his acceptance.
You dip your fingers in the salve, leaning back into the space next to his ear.
“This will sting at first, but it will help with the healing.”
He grunts in response, which you take as your sign to move forward. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you swipe your salve-covered fingers lightly across the wound. The General sharply inhales but says nothing. You watch as his fists tighten against the edge of the bath.
Without thinking, you mimic what your grandmother had done so often to your own scrapes as a child. You lean forward and blow lightly over the salve. The General startles, suddenly sitting up straighter.
“What are you doing?”
“It helps,” you pause, blowing again along the salve, “with the sting.”
“Gods above,” you hear him mutter, quiet enough that you can barely hear him.
But you do.
Acacius selects a cloth from the pile next to the bath, and begins wiping along his battle worn skin. As he turns to reach his opposite shoulder, he hisses in pain, this time louder.
Shuffling around on your knees, you take in the General’s profile, grimacing at another large wound starting at his ribcage and winding around his side. This one looks deeper and more painful than the one on his shoulder. His skin is marred with dried blood and dirt; his profile grim and stoney.
Slowly, he turns his head and meets your gaze, his pupils wide and full against his deep brown eyes. You feel your breath quicken, and your grip tightens around the salve jar. Silently, you stand, not breaking his gaze, and you step into the bath.
Acacius’s gaze never leaves yours, but he says nothing.
Silently, you lift the bottom of your stola above your knees with your free hand, and wade further into the bath. Coming to stand in front of him, you hold out your hand for the cloth.
Acacius opens his mouth to protest, but you are quicker.
“Acacius,” you preen, using his name to your advantage, “I can see you are in pain. Let me help you wash.”
The General’s hand loosens on the cloth, and you pull it from his grip, dipping it into the scented water, and stepping in closer, between his spread knees, to begin wiping along his neck. You fight to keep your breath steady as you move the cloth across his dirtied skin, not daring to meet his eyes.
Slowly, you make your way down his body, carefully cleaning around the wound on his side, then reaching lower, your hand disappearing under the water to clean the dirt from his toned lower abdomen. You feel the distinct twitch of his manhood against your wrist as you clean. The general hisses, this time, a different sound, not one of pain. You steady your hand and forge ahead until his body is free of the blood and mud of battle.
You finally dare to meet the general’s gaze, his pupils blown, his eyes wide with desire. You have seen this look before, on strange men at the market, on Cassius’s face when he stole you you’re your home. But this is the first time you are not afraid.
You raise yourself to lift your knee over one of Acacius’s thick thighs, and then the other, straddling him on the bench of the bath. You feel his manhood twitch again beneath you, and you shudder.
You say nothing before dipping your hand into the salve again. You lightly press your palm to the wound on his side, spreading the salve across the cut, listening to him hiss again at the sting.
You lean forward, your lips hovering a half inch above his chest, as you blow on the salve. This time, your gaze holds his, as your light breath cools the burning sensation. The General’s gaze turns molten, his jaw clenched tightly.
Faster than you can even notice, the General reaches out his hand to grasp your chin, tight, almost bruising, but not painful. You squeak in surprise, dropping the remaining jar of salve into the bath, but neither of you drop your gaze. He pulls your chin upwards so you are no longer bent, and are facing him, directly.
“What—” He breathes through his nostrils, giving the impression of a bull about to charge. “What. Are. You. Doing.”
As he speaks, you feel his bare cock twinge against your clothed sex once again. The feeling emboldens you. It’s too late to turn back anyways.
“Let me help you.” You repeat, plaintively. You allow your hands, now free, to travel up his arms, resting lightly on his neck. “Let me.”
Your voice is pleading, and syrupy. His grip on your chin softens, but his gaze is no less severe.
“I am not in the mood, little one, to be gentle tonight, to provide you with the care you deserve” he growls.
“Use me however you please General, if it takes away from the pain. I do not fear you.”
“You should,” he whispers gruffly, his hand dragging down to rest on the side of your neck, his other one reaching up to grasp your bicep. “Do you know how many lives these hands have taken, little one?”
Lightly, you roll your hands down his forearms, resting each of your hands on his own.
“These hands,” you begin, squeezing his under yours, “May have blood on them, but you are the only man in this godforsaken world that has never betrayed my trust. I trust you with my life.”
Your pause, raising your gaze meets his again, as you swallow hard. “So, use me however you see fit, Dominus.”
His reaction is instantaneous. He lunges forward, pulling you into him with equal fervor as his lips meet yours. The kiss is harsh, and Acacius is unyielding, his teeth pulling sharply at your lips, his tongue prodding the depths of your mouth. When he pulls away, you can’t help but gasp for breath. As you pant heavily, his weighted gaze roams up and down, from the sweat glistening on your brow, to the water-soaked palla plastered against your breasts, leaving your nipples on obvious display.
“You would have the jealousy of Venus herself,” he mutters, his tone edging on awed. Your cheeks burn lightly at the bold compliment.
“Tell me—” he begins, his hands smoothing down your shoulders and resting over your breasts, before kneading them harshly, “Are you untouched, little one?”
You groan into the pressure, feeling your nipples peak even harder.
“Yes,” you sigh as he drags his teeth along your neck, before rising back up to nip sharply at your ear. A spare hand trails down your side, beneath your soaked stola, fingers resting on your unclothed sex.
“And yet, you give me your innocence willingly?” he questions, nosing at your chin before diving back in for another scorching kiss.
After he pulls away, you can’t help but whine. “Yes,” you moan, as he presses his hand harder against your folds. “Yes, please General, I give you all of myself, willingly, in whatever manner you wish.”
The groan Acacius releases against your chest is otherworldly. He removed his hand from your sex, his other gripping your forearm tightly, squeezing his eyes shut just as tight, as if fighting the last thread of restraint he has in his body. When he opens his eyes, his gaze looks hardened.
“Go to the edge of the bath and face the door,” he growls, no hint of warmth in his tone.
Your stomach tightens and your response to him is immediate once he releases your arm from his bruising grip. You find yourself scrambling off his lap, and taking a kneeling position on the ceramic seat, leaning over the edge of the bath, staring at the door. Your body, once warmed by the water becomes covered in goosebumps as your wet skin meets the cool night air. Your legs remain mostly covered by the warmth of the bath, while the rest of you is exposed. You hear and feel the water of the bath slosh around, but you have no sense of how close he is until two large hands are gliding up your thighs, lifting your soaking stola above your hips. You feel your bare ass exposed to the air, as the extra fabric is shoved under your arms.
“A masterpiece,” you hear him growl, as his hands migrate from your thighs to the globes of your ass.
“It will hurt,” he states, no emotion behind the words.
“Let it,” you sigh, turning your neck slightly, only to be met with his stoney gaze. “I am not afraid. For what is life without pain?”
His eyes bore into yours, as if to assess your sincerity; he does not find an ounce of dishonesty in them, and grips your hips harder in response before growling out, “Eyes on the door, girl.”
You comply immediately, your mind filled with nothing other than the desire to please this man in any way he needs.
One hand delivers a sharp slap to one of your ass cheeks, causing you to squeak in surprise, immediately soothing the reddened skin with light strokes of his palm. You feel his hardness line up with your untouched opening and you moan again at the foreign feeling.
“Deep breath, my sweet girl,” you hear him whisper. You comply, sucking in large breath as he shoves into your tight heat without any warning. You moan at the intrusion, your body folding further over the side of the bath with the force of his entry. He does not wait for you to become accustomed to his size, immediately pulling out almost entirely before slamming back into you.
The pressure is intense, a sharp sting of pain radiating from your lower abdomen at the foreign intrusion. You feel full, stretched to an impossible capacity, the pressure almost unbearable. He is so large, you feel as though you are being torn in two. But he warned you of this, and you accepted willingly, so you suck in another deep breath, and grip the edge of the bath until your knuckles turn white. He continues to slam into you at a shocking pace for a man so battle-worn. His hands migrate to your hips, moving them in time with his own.
The sting is harsh, causing small tears to gather at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to ask him to stop. You will give him what he needs.
After several more excruciating thrusts, the pinch begins to lessen, the intense pain morphing into a dull throb, which is soon overcome by an indescribable feeling of fullness. The general angles his hips slightly upward, and a wave of pleasure washes over you unlike anything you have ever felt.
“Oh—” you gasp, feeling a familiar coil of heat in your belly, “Oh—yes, General, please.”
You swear you hear the general huff out a laugh, dropping his lips to your ear.
“You like that, sweet girl?” he states, no question in his voice, as his hips continue pistoning at an inhuman pace.
“Yes—” you moan, desperate, on the verge of sobbing, “Yes, it feels— oh. Oh. OH.”
“That’s right, little one, let it happen,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your ear.
With one final slam, your vision whites out, the fire in your belly exploding into fireworks. As you gasp, you feel yourself fall completely forward over the edge of the bath. Two strong arms circle around your waist, bringing you back, until your spine is plastered against the general’s front. He fucks up into you, holding you against him with a strength that surprises you.
“So good for me,” he breathes heavily into your ear, his pace becoming erratic, “So, perfect.” One arm remains wrapped around your waist, while the other comes up to palm your covered breast. Your hair has fallen from its pins to the front of your face, making you look wild and untamed. With a few more harsh thrusts, Acacius pulls you tightly to him with a groan, and you feel him come deep inside of you.
The General pants heavily in your ear, pressing his face into your sweat-slicked neck and taking a deep breath of your sent, before placing a chaste kiss to the space where your neck meets your shoulder. After a few steadying breaths, he releases you delicately, turning you in his arms, so you are looking up at him in the bath. He leans down placing his forehead against yours in an intimate gesture that makes your mouth dry.
“I am sorry—” Acacius whispers, stroking your wrist lightly, “I was violent with you.”
“Don’t be,” you whisper in response, your hands rising to cup his face. “I am yours to do as you wish, Acacius.”
Acacius frowns, brushing a stray hair from your forehead, “You are your own woman, dear, no one should claim such ownership of you.”
You smile, leaning back against the side of the bath, putting your disheveled form on full display for your conqueror. “Technically, I suppose I am,” you whisper, your voice wavering slightly, “But in reality, I have been yours, and yours alone since the day you saved me from the auction. Perhaps even since you bought me that first sweet at the market as a child. Besides, I liked it Acacius.”
Acacius groans, almost pained. “Well, my darling girl, it would appear I have been yours for just as long.”
Your heart thumps deep within your chest. You can’t help but release a light sob, which is promptly swallowed as he captures your mouth with another searing kiss.
“Come,” he whispers, nudging you up on the edge of the bath. “Let’s take a look at you,” he soothes, unwrapping your palla, before pulling your stola and tunic over your head. “Oh, sweetheart,” he croons, eyes filled with regret. It is only then that you notice where his gaze lies, not on your naked form, but on the smear of blood against your thighs.
Without words, he reaches to grab another cloth, before wiping delicately between your legs. You are both silent as he cleans you, with a look on his face so devout that you feel like Venus herself. Silently, he tosses the rag to the side, stepping out of the bath. It is only now that you have a chance to take in his fully nude form. You drink in his tanned skin covering strong thighs; the mess of hair resting below his softened but strikingly large cock. You cannot help but stare until you are interrupted by a small chuckle.
“I assure you, the feeling is mutual,” Acacius smiles down at you, finally drinking in your own nude form. He reaches out a hand, offering you assistance as you rise from the edge of the bath. The two of you stand, hand-in-hand, bewitched by the form of each other.
The silence ticks by, for minutes, perhaps hours, until Acacius raises his other hand to caress your cheek. He looks uncertain now, so unlike the Acacius of mere minutes ago.
“Join me in my chambers,” he says, not asked as a question, but you can see in his eyes that he awaits an answer that only you can give.
“I would love nothing more,” you reply, and the smile that breaks out along his face is so strikingly beautiful and diametrically opposed to any expression he has before made.
“On one condition,” you add with a smile, which causes the older man to raise his eyebrows. “You find me a tunic to wear before we leave. I think Cato may have a heart attack if he sees me like this.”
Acacius lets out a laugh, low and genuine. “Well, we can’t have that can we,” he agrees, reaching over to his own clean tunic which you pull happily over your head. It is about five sizes too big, and smells of citrus and clay, of Acacius. Acacius wraps a larger cloth around his hips, covering his manhood, and places a hand lightly on the small of your back, guiding you towards the doorway.
“Are you sore, my dear?” he asks, as you make your way from the baths.
“A little, but it’s not so bad,” you answer truthfully.
“Good,” he sighs, leaning into your space as you walk, “That’s good. I have plans for you tonight. And they start with having you properly, in my bed.”
You like the sound of that.